Betrayal

"Normally, yes, although it can vary."

"So you said. So your testimony is that a blackout can last for a few days, is that right?"

"Well, again, the terminology of blackout isn't precise. If we're talking about fainting or a seizure, I'd say no. They don't last more than ten minutes usually. True unconsciousness, however, can of course extend indefinitely, though I would hesitate to call that a blackout."

"So is there any way that you can assure the jury that Defendant in fact suffered any kind of blackout at all on the night of the beating?"

"No, I can't say that."

Mills threw a plainly gloating look over to the jury, then came back to Bromley. "Thank you, Doctor. That's all."

"Was it just me," Evan asked, "or did not that go very well?"

They were in the holding area behind the courtroom again, for the recess. In a gesture that Washburn took to be one of sympathy, the bailiff had delivered paper cups filled with fresh, hot coffee for both him and his client. Normally, this wasn't allowed since a suspect with a cup of hot coffee was a suspect who could attack people with it, but today for some reason-the change in the weather? the pathetic Bromley testimony?-the bailiff had offered and both men had jumped at the chance.

Washburn, of course, downplayed the problem. Shrugging, he said, "Between Onofrio and Bromley we got in a whole lot of what you've been through. Somebody on that jury is going to care, you watch." He sipped at the brew. The bravado he'd put in his answer wasn't just to buff up his own self-image. Evan was going on the stand next, and Washburn needed him to project both relaxation and confidence while he was up there. He was going to get to tell his story at last and, more importantly, sell it to the jury.

But it wasn't much of a story, and both men seemed to understand that.

"Don't take this badly." Unruffled, collected, Washburn leaned back against the wall and crossed one leg over the other. "I still think we've got a decent shot, but I also think the Court would look favorably on an offer to plead."

Evan turned his head and fixed Washburn with a glare. "We've been through that."

"Yes, we have. And now you're going to tell the jury that you didn't kill Nolan."

"That's right."

"Any idea who did? Because I don't have one."

"It wasn't me."

"Because you don't remember doing it?"

"Everett. Listen. I can't believe I beat him with a poker, then shot him in the head, and have no memory of it. I would remember that."

Washburn sighed. "Well, as you say, we've been all through it. But we could say you went back to talk to him after the fight and he attacked you. You were weak from the earlier beating and you had no choice but to grab the poker…"

Evan was holding up his hand. "…and execute him with a point-blank shot to the head. I didn't do that. That is not who I am."

"Yes, and that may not be the point." He tipped up his coffee and swallowed. "There's absolutely nothing about those days that you remember?"

"You don't think I've tried? You don't think I want to remember any little thing?"

"Maybe you were drunk the whole time?" Washburn rubbed his palms on his pants legs. "I want you to think about this carefully, Evan. If that's what happened, at least that gives the jurors something more to think about."

"If I change my story now, then I'm a liar before, though, right?"

"No. If you just remembered, it's come back to you in the stress of the trial."

"Damn conveniently. They'll see through that in a heartbeat."

"Okay. Suppose it happened that you were home the whole time, suffering from the beating, drinking to kill the pain. You never left the apartment."

"And how does that help me? They'd still have to believe me."

"No." Washburn shook his head. "They don't have to believe you. One of them has to believe you. It's a lot better to say 'I didn't do it' than 'I don't remember, but I probably didn't do it.' There's a real difference there."

Evan took a couple of breaths. "I thought it was about the evidence. Not what I say. What the evidence says."

"That's the problem," Washburn said. "The evidence, my friend, makes a very good case that you did it." Just at that moment, the bailiff appeared, and Washburn punched his client on the thigh. "Drink your coffee," he said. "We're up."

27

After the months of buildup, the endless coaching and strategy sessions, the arguments, disagreements, accords, and prognostications, Evan Scholler's time on the witness stand was really quite brief. Washburn saw no point in having his client go over again all of the reasons he might have had to loathe the victim. That had all been well-established by earlier witnesses. There were really only a couple of lines of inquiry that Washburn thought stood any chance of traction with the jury, if only because they provided an alternative theory to the case, and he got right to them.

"Evan," he said, "why did you break into Mr. Nolan's home?"

"First, let me say that that was wrong. There's no excuse, I shouldn't have done that. I should have advised the homicide detail of my suspicions about Mr. Nolan."

Mills got to her feet. "Your Honor, nonresponsive."

"Sustained." Tollson's glare went from Washburn over to Evan. He spoke to the defendant. "Mr. Scholler. Please only answer the questions that the attorneys put to you. You're not here to make speeches."

"Yes, Your Honor. Sorry."

"All right, Mr. Washburn, go ahead, and carefully, please."

Washburn posed the question again, and Evan responded. "Because I had found out about the Khalil murders from the paper, and then more about them from Lieutenant Spinoza. I had gone on a mission with Mr. Nolan when we were in Baghdad together, and he'd used frag grenades at that time. Then, knowing that Mr. Khalil was of Iraqi descent, and knowing what Mr. Nolan did for a living, it occurred to me that he might have had something to do with those murders."

"Why didn't you simply, as you say, go to homicide?"

"Because I might have been wrong, which would have made me look stupid both to the lieutenant and to Tara, and I couldn't have that."

"Why was that?"

"Well, one, I was a policeman myself. Two, I was hoping to reconnect with Tara."

"All right. So you broke into Mr. Nolan's home?"

"I did let myself in, yes."

"Trying to find evidence that Mr. Nolan had been involved in the Khalil murders?"

"That's right."

"Didn't you think that was a bit far-fetched?"

"Not at all. I'd seen Mr. Nolan kill other people."

Mills raised her voice. "Objection."

"Your Honor," Washburn responded. "Mr. Nolan was a security officer. Sometimes his job was to kill people. Mr. Scholler knew him in that setting in Iraq. There is nothing pejorative about it."

Tollson put his glasses back on. "Objection overruled."

"All right," Washburn continued. "Now, when you went into Mr. Nolan's home, Evan, did you find anything which in your opinion might have been connected to the Khalil murders?"

"Yes."

Evan ran through his actions and motivations in a straightforward manner-the frag grenades, touching the gun both in the backpack and in the bed's headboard, the computer files. As Washburn had coached him, he kept bringing his narrative back to the jury, and particularly-without being too obvious-to Mrs. Ellersby, three over from the left in the second row.

"So you copied the photographic computer file?"

"Yes."

"Presumably, now, you had your proof, or at least some possible proof, of a connection between Mr. Nolan and the Khalil murders. What did you do next?"